


The Turning

by srsly_yes



Series: Blood Brothers 'Verse [11]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, M/M, Slash, Vampire!Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death isn’t an option for House. He’s short listed for the walking dead unless Wilson turns him into a vampire; however Wilson has problems of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** [H]ouse is not mine and never will be.  
>  **A/N:** At long last, after two years of revisions, Vampire!Wilson is ALIVE! A new installment in the Blood Brothers ‘verse. Each story is self-contained, but loosely connected to the others in the series. If you are new to the ‘verse or need a refresher, here’s a [brief summary](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/79583.html#cutid1).
> 
> The story is dedicated to brynnamorgan.  
>  **Beta:** The awesome [](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/profile)[**hwshipper**](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/). ♥  
> 

_There are only two things I regret, loving Gregory House and killing him…_  
                                    —from James Wilson’s Journal, _A Vampire’s Life_

* * *

Composing himself for transport, Zehava’s shrill voice shattered his concentration. “Are you meshugah? The hearing is about to begin. You don’t have time.”

“I’ll make the time. This might be my last chance to—”

“Give it up, James. If only you could suck the life out of humans the way you worry, your head wouldn’t be on the chopping block. He refused to see you the last time you went to his apartment, and the time before. Gregory House can out-stubborn a mule.” She clicked her tongue and scoffed. “A fine pair you make. Drop it.”

Wilson rolled his fingers into fists, closed his eyes, and called upon his reserves of strength and patience. “I’ll only be a minute. I’ll meet you outside the tribunal chamber.”

“James…!” Zehava’s shout faded into the distance.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing outside House’s bedroom, not inside as he had planned. Swaying, he clutched the doorframe while fighting off a cloud of dizziness threatening to engulf him.

As his head cleared, a fetid odor like burning tar tingled his nose. He reflexively stepped backward. With that one movement he was undone. A hulking Nosferatu materialized, hot coals of menace glowing from his eyes.

With all the bravado he could muster, Wilson commanded, “Fuzzy, stand aside.”

“No way, Wilson,” Fuzzy replied in his chesty baritone. “It’s the Doc’s orders.”

Normally he would let the comment slide, but the hearing had him on edge. “What? You’re taking sides? I’m not a doctor? Wasn't I just as much a friend to you as House was when you begged us for asylum?”

“I remember, Doctor Wilson, sir.” Fuzzy growled, carefully enunciating Wilson’s medical title, and bobbed his head in deference.

Wilson could almost make out his reflection on the shiny, pale pink scalp.

“But House gave me specific instructions first, Doctor, sir.”

“I didn’t know I needed to take a number.” Spotting trouble lurking in the red embers, Wilson changed tactics. “Come on Fuzz, for old times?”

He almost groaned in frustration when Fuzzy's brow rippled with furrows. “Is two years, seven months, eight days, four hours, forty-two minutes, and 12 seconds, 13 seconds, 14 secon—”

“Stop.” Wilson held up his hands. “’Old times.’ It’s an expression.”

“Oh.” Fuzzy’s face became more inscrutable than his usual—a sign that he was processing the information. Finally, he spoke. “There’s nothing I can do.”

The eyes still contained fire, the drool dripping from the fangs were as venomous as ever, but Wilson detected genuine regret. There was no way he would get to see or talk to House. As for their connection, House had severed it, effectively becoming deaf and mute to Wilson’s entreaties.

“At least tell me how he is?”

The hairless head shook sadly. “Not good, Wilson. He’s weak and running a fever. He can’t get out of bed by himself.”

“Did you test his blood circulation?”

“Turned to sludge. In the extremities there are signs that the smallest arteries are encrusted with powdered blood and threatening to collapse. Before sunrise he’ll be playing for the other team unless the Godfather chooses you to take charge of him. Until then, I can’t permit you to go inside.”

“The Godfather won’t let him turn into a zombie,” Wilson said, wielding his reassuring bedside manner. “The hearing is only a formality.”

“Seriously? You promise?”

“I promise,” Wilson answered, feeling a twinge of guilt for his empty pledge. “I gotta go, Fuzz. Can’t be late for the hearing. Tell House I was here?”

As Fuzzy vigorously nodded, Wilson closed his eyes and willed himself to the Godfather’s headquarters.

* * *

Before the massive, polished steel doors of the tribunal chamber glided open on well-oiled hinges, Wilson successfully managed to avoid Zehava and her sharp gaze and tongue.

 _“Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t make eye contact,”_ she admonished as they entered, never moving her lips.

Wilson studied the windowless room. Centuries-old portraits of men and women hung on the age-darkened paneling. Responding without speech or telepathic connection, he kept his thoughts to himself and let his body language speak for him.

“Smart ass,” she hissed, in sotto voce. The sibilant syllables bounced off the walls. Insults were acceptable lingua franca among his kind. Besides, the epithet barely pricked after years of practice ignoring House’s well-crafted barbs.

He followed his sire as she headed toward the front row of the gallery and concentrated on the soothing quiet, thick and cottony as an airless bank vault. The gnawing headache and queasiness ebbed under his concentration. Good. The next hours were crucial. He needed to keep his wits about him and show no signs of weakness.

Behind him he heard scuffling feet and murmuring. The rows were filling up fast. In front of him stretched a long tribunal table where the Godfather and his lieutenants would sit.

In the center of the room, a lectern rose like a broken pillar from Atlantis. For his sake, House had stood there, fighting off writhing pain inflicted by a young sadistic vampire. Shortly, it would be Wilson’s turn. But in his case, he believed he deserved punishment. He was partially to blame for what had transpired.

At least, Zehava had agreed to stand by his side. She was a meddling know-it-all, worse than Cuddy’s mother, but he needed any edge he could get. She was a loyal member of the La Famiglia and the Borgia trusted her. She would lend credibility to his cause just by being there.

A prickling sensation thrummed the back of his neck. He attempted to rub it away, but his self-control took a nosedive and he turned around. A chill went up his spine as he zeroed in on one face. _”The Count is here,”_ he communicated telepathically.

_”Of course he is. He wants House as much as you do. He probably masterminded the zombie incident.”_

As Wilson absorbed her information his stone heart heaved in his chest.

_”Cut the unseemly dramatics, imbecile. Don’t remind anyone that you have a soul. Behave like a vampire.”_

He dropped his chin to his chest in a contrite gesture. A desire to go over his plan in his head nagged at him, but he nudged the thought away. The room was full of mind readers. It was too dangerous. When Zehava’s finger jabbed him in the thigh, alerting him that the hearing was about to begin, he was almost grateful. There was no more time to wrestle with his thoughts.

On the left side of the room a velvet curtain drew open and a black clad Nosferatu bailiff walked toward the center, staring at the assembly until not a click of an incisor could be heard. He could be Fuzzy’s double except his coloring exhibited the rosy hue from a recent visit to the Hell Pit. “All rise,” he snarled.

An identical curtain parted on the opposite side, and the Godfather, as most referred to him, (or sometimes in hushed, respectful tones, the Borgia), stepped briskly into the chamber. Wilson expected to see the silver-haired head of his clan with a cadre of handpicked officials. Instead two very different looking vamps in flowing black robes flanked him. The sight of Caesar Borgia was enough to liquefy the knees of any vampire, but just looking upon these creatures was ten times worse.

They were escapees from a nightmare. Faces aged until they were practically mummified. Bright onyx eyes bulged from their faces. Their skin, or what passed for it, looked translucent as Russian amber. Without having any evidence, Wilson knew these vamps were old—older than the Godfather. Perhaps as old as civilization.

A tremor of fear shivered through his body. He was not alone. He sensed an identical reaction around him. Since vampires were at the top of the food chain, this was a highly unusual response. They were lions with no natural predators, their hackles rising as hunters trespassed onto their territory.

After the Godfather and his companions were ensconced in their chairs, the Nosferatu nodded solemnly, signaling all to sit. He then took his place in front of the bench. Bending his head and tucking his hands into the loose sleeves of his tunic, he looked like a humble monk at prayer. This was his preparation for his next duty—the eyes and ears for the hearing. Every word and action would be recorded in his memory.

In a calm, clear voice, the Godfather said, “Today is an auspicious occasion. We have two Ancients among us, Lord Electors, Pahuack and Urckon. Please pay your respects.”

Along with everyone, Wilson bowed his head. The Ancients. He had read about them. They were second-generation vamps. Not a drop of human blood in them. The Godfather, in his quest for eternal life, was one of a privileged few who had brokered private deals and created the third generation of the undead. An innovator, he flourished among his newly minted competition by creating the first clan.

Wilson’s hopes plummeted. He had counted on the Godfather’s patronage. He and House were the Borgia’s darling duo, an ensouled vamp with a natural-born vampire hunter as his minion. No matter how powerful the Borgia was, he had to bow to the wishes of the Ancients. And there were rumors that they disdained all products from the first dilution. Vampires with souls would be viewed as an abomination.

He looked up when he heard the sound of lizards skittering across dry leaves. The Ancients were speaking. “Thank you, Caesar.”

Not good. No one dared to call the Godfather by his first name and survived… except House.

“Our esteemed guests decided to visit our humble clan today. News of the unusual filing had spread throughout my domain and beyond. First we will render a decision on Gregory House’s request for emancipation from his master, James Wilson. Immediately following, we will reassign his custody in order to precipitate his turning.”

 _Emancipation. Reassign custody._ Wilson rubbed his forehead with the tip of his fingers. The words clawed at his worthless heart. He desperately prayed he could turn the situation around. Keep a level head. But he was weak from not feeding, and it was taking its toll. Concentrating on how he would present his side of the case, the Godfather’s words barely broke into his thoughts.

“Emancipation is granted, our decision is final.”

“What? So fast? You’re not serious.” Wilson pushed back his chair, but Zehava grabbed his shoulder in a vise-like grip and prevented him from standing.

“You can’t question the Godfather. Apologize! Apologize now or—“

But it was too late. He heard rather than saw the singing of a blade removed from its scabbard. The bailiff leapt to his feet, brandishing his weapon over his head, bright blue flames licking at the sword’s edge. Whirling with the fury of a funnel cloud, he rushed toward Wilson. With no weapon, supernatural defenses, or energy to physically defend himself, Wilson closed his eyes and prepared to feel a burning slash to his throat and a fall into nothingness.

.


	2. Chapter 2

Gusts of air from the bailiff’s whirling sword fanned his face. He opened his eyes to find the blade rushing down--a shooting star with tongues of flame and spitting sparks. It bit into his neck with the deadliness of a cobra.

“Halt,” said the Godfather, barely raising his voice above a whisper.

The hulking Nosferatu froze. As did his robes, and everyone in the room except Wilson. He staunched his oozing blood by pressing his fingers on the gash. If he were human, he would have bled out before reaching a hospital, but his skin was already healing under his touch.

“Please return to your seat, Titta.”

The sword vanished into a cloud of smoke, and the Nosferatu skulked back to his chair, hunching into his listening position.

“Mastro Wilson, what did you wish to say?” the Godfather asked.

Encouraged by the Borgia addressing him by his new rank of Mastro, recently awarded for mastering the spells in the Book, he said, “The decision—“ He felt an elbow prod his side. Zehava was sending a warning to tread carefully. Since when was he impulsive? “I expected a chance to respond before you made your decision, my Lord.”

A general grumbling went through the gallery. Someone snorted and said in a stage whisper, “Does he think this is the Supreme Court?”

Sifting through the papers in front of him, the Godfather paid no heed to the crowd. He picked up a delicate sheet of parchment, the light filtering through it like stained glass. “Witnesses testified that you refused to grant your minion’s request to be embraced.”

Witnesses? That was an unexpected development. “Untrue, Godfather. I never refused House anything.”

The Borgia’s eyes studied the document for a long time before putting it down. “Did you not attempt to discourage your minion? Described turning as an unpleasant experience? Warned him that it was twenty-four hours of unmitigated and excruciating pain exacerbated because he is a vampire hunter? That two diametrically opposite natures would make him go mad? You argued in favor of human death?”

Hisses rose from the gallery.

“Yes, but—“

“Did you not express fear that embracing would break your connection? You would become competing predators and sworn enemies?”

“Well, yes, but—“

“No buts, Mastro Wilson. My decision is final.” The Godfather smiled and spoke at an inaudible human pitch. “Or do you wish to defy me?”

Wilson motioned with his hands, placatingly. “No, Godfather.”

“Don’t say another word, James,” Zehava warned.

Ignoring her advice and believing if he lost House there was no reason to live, Wilson carelessly plunged on. “It’s true. At different times during our relationship I advised him that a high price tag was attached to swapping his life for an undead one. But you have to understand, House has done many crazy things in an effort to end his leg pain. He needed to grasp that turning would be worse than anything he had ever experienced. And it was House not me who brought up the question whether disparate psyches could co-exist without driving him mad. And yes, my earliest concerns were focused on the two of us continuing our relationship after his first year as a vampire.” Wilson turned and looked at his fellow vamps. “I don’t know who reported our conversations, but those were personal.” Turning back, he shrugged. “We disagree. That’s what we do. And since he was bitten, he wasn’t rational and wouldn’t listen to me. His request for emancipation was a misunderstanding.”

The Godfather dipped his head and shuffled through the stack of paper. “You claim this bite made a difference. He was your minion for a number of years. Why should biting him cause problems now?”

“Not mine. A zombie’s,” Wilson explained.

“Nonsense,” spat one of the Ancients. A wall of jeers sprung up from the assembly.

As the furor steadily mounted, Wilson stood his ground.

The Godfather raised his hand, asking for silence.

“You must be mistaken, Mastro Wilson.” The corner of the Borgia’s mouth quirked upward. “Zombies are the provenance of movies and television. The last known outbreak of the gray plague was over two hundred and fifty years ago. A man and woman found outside Amsterdam. They were exterminated.”

Wilson folded his arms in front of his chest. “Well, they’re back.”

“You have proof?”

“House should be proof enough. The teeth marks on his arm never healed. And a Nosferatu was with us. You can speak to him."

“No physical evidence of the creatures?”

“Evidence?” He had pushed the ugly memory of the ambush into the recesses of his mind. He and House were investigating the disappearance of an acquaintance. Hunting senses turned up to high, House followed-up on a hunch that vampires were behind it. They were taken by surprise when rotting corpses leapt out of the dark, ribbons of flesh dangling from their limbs like tattered cloth. And the stink…

He dug into his pocket for his wallet and procured a scrap of paper. It was instantly snatched out of his hand by the bailiff. “That’s the address of a boarded up hotel slated for demolition in Atlantic City. Check the basement. We didn’t call housekeeping before we left.”

“Your news is troubling.” The Godfather steepled his hands and tapped the tips of his fingers. “Not only do zombies cut into our food supply, but stumblers are filthy, unintelligent creatures who litter the landscape with body parts. A zombie’s blood is worthless to us.”

“All the nutrition of a strawberry milkshake and twice as thick,” Wilson agreed.

“When did you last imbibe a nutritious meal, my boy?”

Wilson’s stomach cramped as he rubbed his forehead. It took an effort to remember. “Over two weeks ago.”

“House must have lost faith that you could turn him.”

Mustering his confidence, Wilson answered, “I’ll find a way. I just need to see him.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not a good enough reason for me to reverse my decision,” the Godfather said, not unkindly. “While the gray plague cannot kill the undead, and many of us are resistant, some vampires do suffer mild to harsh debilitating side effects. Other than a noticeable drop in weight, you appear fine. Any lesions or neurological symptoms?”

His dizziness, loss of focus, and fatigue could easily be attributed to the lack of a House Happy Meal in his life. “Nothing.”

“Where are House and the Nosferatu?”

“In House’s apartment.”

“Titta, “ said the Godfather. “Send a team to the attack site and gather any evidence, and make arrangements for House and the Nosferatu’s transport immediately. Tell the lab to be on standby. Let’s find out if Mastro Wilson’s diagnosis is true, and if it isn’t too late for any vamp to turn him.”

“My Lord, wi-will—?” Wilson stammered out, but got no further when the Godfather turned his gaze upon him. He felt a burst of pain inside his head, then invisible fingers massaging his temples, and a cool sensation behind his eyes. The Godfather was probing his mind, making a connection. It was completely different than what he had felt with House or Zehava—more penetrating and painful, yet seductive.

“Rest assured, House and his Nosferatu will be well taken care of,” the Godfather answered his unfinished question and severed the link. He gathered up his papers, tapping them into alignment. “This sheds new light on why you did not follow through on your duty to your minion. I’m underwhelmed by your loyalty for your kind, but if you want to petition for custody, I shall allow it.”

Wilson stood and bowed. The decision was not what he had hoped, but it was a start.

“Meanwhile, we shall take a short recess. If there are any candidates still desiring to become House’s sire, sign in with Titta.”

No one displayed any alarm about the disease. Every vamp, including Zehava, moved at the speed of light to form a line in front of the clerk. As Wilson sauntered over, he noted that Titta produced a rack of glass vials. Without asking and working quickly, he sliced the palm of each vamp with a short blade and filled one of the tiny containers with their blood. No labels were applied, but everyone’s blood was as distinctive as a mug shot. Wilson took a step forward and fastidiously rolled up his sleeve while he thought about how House would gloat over winning their twenty-dollar bet. Vampires did prefer blood to ink.

***

  


By the time he had reached the front of the line, clans and family units had formed huddles and were abuzz with strategies. He spotted Count Vlad in a corner with a sizable contingency. From their foul expressions, the Count was embroiled in a disagreement. A nod from him, and a vamp broke from the pack, scurrying off to the bailiff. Wilson expected the Nosferatu to walk back to the flock and put a stop to the arguing, instead he disappeared behind the curtain.

On the opposite side of the room he spied Zehava with three other vampires and joined them. There was a tall, blond man, GQ handsome, and a woman with silky, raven hair who belonged on the cover of Vogue. House had said his clan could garnish favorable publicity if they ever published a newsstand glossy featuring photo shoots of their members. The third vampire dispelled the theory. It was frog-like Irving who made up for his looks with the warmth of his words. “Sorry, bubbeleh,” he said, as he vigorously patted Wilson on the back.

“James, did you ever meet Jax and Malinda?” Zehava said, quickly dispensing with introductions.

Jax grinned, his teeth outshining his luminous ivory skin. He explained with a light brogue, “We’re expecting a formal proceeding with the Godfather asking questions. Is there anything you want us to emphasize?”

“Talk up my relationship with House.”

“Like how you and Irving hauled House out of the Hell Pit during the ball?” Malinda answered as she rubbed against Wilson. “Have you considered he might be more trouble than he’s worth?”

“No.” He backed away. “That’s House being House.”

“I understand even if Malinda doesn’t.” Jax nodded. “We can easily spin that incident into your loyalty to House. We’ll find a way to work that into our testimony.”

Before he could respond, the bailiff announced the return of the Godfather and the Ancients. Wilson took Zehava’s elbow and escorted her to their chairs.

***

  


“Since we have representatives from clans spanning the globe, and in the interest of impartiality…, ” the Godfather began.

Sitting forward, Wilson detected steel behind the Godfather’s eyes and uncustomary deep wrinkles bracketing his mouth.

“…the interrogatorium will follow international guidelines—an open forum conducted by our guests and clansman who petitioned for custody. The Ancients and I will serve as judges, ensuring that the rules are upheld and that justice is served.”

Behind his back, Wilson heard huffs of displeasure mingling with the hum of satisfaction. He twisted around and caught a smile on the Count’s face. This was Vlad’s doing.

“The rules are simple,” the Godfather explained, eyes strafing the crowd. “Each petitioner is cross-examined by his peers, and each vampire is allotted a total of three questions for the whole session. The questions must pertain to the fitness and desire of the petitioner to accept custody of the minion, House. Does everybody understand?

The assembly responded with a chorus of yeses.

The Godfather picked up a sheet of paper. “Before we begin, it is necessary for you to know a preliminary examination of the minion, House was conducted upon his arrival. My physicians confirmed he is in the last stages of the gray plague—full-blown zombieism.” He glanced quickly at Wilson. “During the examination House had a seizure and fell into a coma. If the minion can still be turned, we must move with haste. If there are any candidates who wish to withdraw, please do so now.”

Risking another laceration, Wilson stood up. “Where is House? I want to see him.”

“Leave. Yesss, let him leave,” the Ancients wheezed in unison.

He strode briskly to the entrance.

“You will be disqualified if you step out of the room,” the Borgia said, effectively stopping Wilson in his tracks. When it came to House, maybe he was impulsive.

“You can do more here than sitting vigil at his bedside, James.” Zehava consoled, when he returned to his chair.

Shaken by the news of House’s condition, the exodus had barely registered with him. He forced himself to look. Where once the gallery was full, vacant chairs stood out like a gap-toothed grin. He estimated one third of the vampires had stampeded out the door. Representatives from a handful of clans remained, including Jax, Malinda, and Irving. Predictably, the Count and his lackeys had taken up residence in the back row, immobile and rooted to their chairs.

Unperturbed, the Godfather waited until the room settled into velvet silence before speaking. “You heard the international guidelines, now I’ll give you the house rules: You have an hour to cross-examine the candidates.” He glanced at the large hourglass that stood on a small table near the Nosferatu. “Be warned, under no circumstance will I tolerate any drama or delaying tactics. If I suspect so much as a blink of an eye was employed to consume a second, the vampire will be thrown out.”

“What if they run out of time?” Wilson whispered to Zehava. “I’m last.”

“Disaster,” she said through her teeth. “You won’t get to plead your case and the libel will stand.”

“At the end of the session the Ancients and I will render our verdict,” said the Godfather. “Bailiff, please call the first petitioner on your list to the lectern.”

“Ribera,” the bailiff’s voice rang out. Before the petitioner was halfway across the room, grains of sand coated the base of the hourglass.


	3. Chapter 3

The cunning of his foster race was infinite. While the Godfather and his guests appeared amused, Wilson sat on the edge of his seat.

With a smug smile curling his lips, the first interrogator approached Ribera. He bounced on the balls of his feet before springing his question. “Explain to me and the assembly how it's possible that an incompetent weasel such as yourself could raise a childe?”

The wily vamp had found a loophole to tie up the inquest. The floodgates to a verbal hell opened. The proceeding was a free-for-all of slander and smarmy insults, a duel of smirks and sneers. Instead of stutters or pregnant pauses, the vampires spoke in staccato bursts with barbs peppering their questions.

“Why would a pedophile like yourself seek custody of a full-grown man?”

“You’re so old, your fangs are worn to a nub and must sip blood through a straw. How can you bite anyone?”

“You’re an inbred wuss. When was the last time you were able to sire a vampire?”

Although the questions were short, the answers were long. Every accusation was considered a stain on the candidate’s honor that required a thorough explanation. Fellow clan members rose to their member’s defense. Sometimes a vamp was so enraged the question was forgotten in a torrent of indignation. The question had to be repeated. Meanwhile, a sand dune grew in the hourglass.

After her turn, Zehava flounced back to her chair in a huff, frustration written across her face. She had become entangled in one of the Count’s questions insinuating that her line was unstable. That she was no better than a bitch for whelping dogs like Bill and weaklings like Wilson.

She gripped Wilson’s hand and shook her head, her golden hair swaying against her cheek. “There’s no possibility you will get a chance to speak. There’s only two minutes left.” She tucked a strand behind her ear. “If it’s any consolation, your testimony probably wouldn’t do any good anyway.”

Panic waxed and waned within Wilson, robbing him of speech, feeling, and thought. Aware of the itch from the fading pearly scar on his palm, he withdrew his hand from Zehava’s and rubbed it with his thumb. One of the Count’s clansmen was skewering a candidate, and all he could do was stare helplessly at the thimbleful of sand hemorrhaging from the top half of the glass; his chance to be with House disappearing with it.

Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Wilson was on his feet. “I have a question.”

“Wait your turn. I have the floor,” snarled the Transylvanian.

“Patrizio Dragos,” the Godfather interrupted. “Your clan’s questions have taken the session hostage and your endless insults are putting our esteemed guests to sleep. Please yield the floor to Mastro Wilson. He’s entitled to ask three questions like the rest of you. _His_ may prove a refreshing change.”

Wilson took center stage. “Excellency, may I see an analysis of the blood draws taken from the candidates?”

Shouts of objection exploded from the gallery.

"Out of order!"

"This is an outrage!"

"The mongrel’s question is out of bounds!

"He’s not addressing the candidate!”

Recognizing the oily timbre of the Count and his pals, Wilson stood his ground, facing the Godfather.

“My dear Vlad, there are no rules stating who the questions must be directed to.” The Godfather glanced at the hourglass. “Since your group’s queries mired the hearing, albeit within protocol, successfully hamstringing Mastro Wilson’s opportunity to testify, I will allow his question.” He nodded at the Nosferatu. “Bailiff, please ask the lab to run the tests…” He looked at Wilson. “Any particular ones, Mastro?”

“Detailed panels for everyone, and the same for House.” Wilson felt a surge of confidence as the chorus started up again.

“WHAT!”

“This is a waste of time!”

“Ridiculous!”

The Godfather’s eyes narrowed, and he wagged a finger in the direction of the rowdy band. The group fell instantly silent. He then focused his attention on Wilson.

“I have your solemn word this isn’t a wild goose-chase?”

“Yes, Godfather.” Wilson shrugged away his doubts. What was another lie among vampires?

“So be it. Titta, execute the request.”

The Nosferatu bowed and evanesced from view in a flutter of erratic pulsations. Before anyone had a chance to discuss the unorthodox directive, the bailiff returned. He brought the documents to the Godfather, who waved them away. “Give them to Mastro Wilson.”

Accustomed to reports about human blood, Wilson thought he had developed dyslexia when he stared at the kaleidoscope of numbers before him. He had asked for details, and the lab took him at his word. If he had asked for a road map, the techs would have procured one with every highway, dirt road, shipping lane, and ant trail from around the globe. He had never considered the possibility that vampire blood had mutated, taken on the characteristics of its victims.

Starting with House’s blood as a baseline, he compared his own numbers. Fortunately his abstinence had paid off. The slight divergence put him on the right path. The numbers unraveled and spoke to him. He must have revealed his satisfaction in a grunt or twitch because there was a scream and a heavy body slammed into his back, dropping him to the floor. Talon-like fingers dug into his skin, flipping him onto his back. A grotesque face filled his vision. He tried to shout, but was paralyzed as a sharp point pricked the tender skin over his heart; the room faded, and there was ringing…

* * *

Awareness slowly returned in the form of gray ghosts floating in a field of black. A metal goblet pushed against his lips.

“Drink. That’s right.”

Blood—sweet and comfortingly warm. Another veil swept from his eyes. The ghosts took on color and a hazy dimensionality. Feeling better, he turned his head, refusing to drink anymore, but the person holding the beaker was stronger and forced another drop into his mouth.

“Mastro Wilson, your stubbornness is misplaced. Don’t give Zehava a hard time.” Wilson recognized the Godfather’s soft voice. “Indulge. The blood is your favorite vintage from my private reserve—from your minion, House. It’s highly prized.”

That was why the taste was seductive and reassuring. The first time he drank it was at the Godfather’s Halloween Ball. His senses returned with every sip, alerting him to a thick bandage constricting his chest. He winced when he gingerly touched the gauze.

“Leave it alone, imbecile! A weapon that pierces the clan’s tattoo takes a long time to heal. One millimeter more and the stake would have penetrated your heart.”

More liquid was forced down his throat. He levered into a sitting position and pushed the cup away. He blinked and the images came into focus. Zehava was perched next to him, holding the cup. The Godfather stood over her shoulder. They were in the Godfather’s study. Titta stood near a door, the Ancients, like extras waiting in the stage wings, blended into the murky shadows.

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” The Godfather spoke with the arrogant impatience of a CEO late for an appointment. He brandished the blood tests. “I would rather not send the whole impudent lot to the Hell Pit without just cause.”

Wilson took the sheets. “This.” He pointed to a specific value on House’s blood panel. “It’s the marker for the gray plague. No one should have it except House and me.” He placed his finger on an identical number besides his name, and handed back the papers to the Godfather.

Taking his time, poring over the sheets, the Borgia finally said, “Vlad and his clan members show minute amounts.”

“Yes, Wilson answered. “The kind that indicates antigens from immunization.”

The Godfather arched an eyebrow. “The Count was behind the zombie attack.” His mouth drew into a knowing smile. “Titta, who dispatched the infected humans in Amsterdam?”

Without hesitation Titta replied, “Gheorghe, one of Radu’s minions from Count Vlad’s clan, my Lord.”

“Refresh my memory, Titta. Who originally lodged the complaint against Mastro Wilson?”

“Radu, my Lord.”

"And it was Radu who jumped Mastro Wilson." The Godfather offered a hand to Wilson, helping him off the couch. Energy emanated from his touch. “Your information changes the complexion of the hearing.” The Godfather tapped a finger against his lip. “This discovery wasn’t a serendipitous coincidence, was it? You planned all along to expose Vlad’s scheme.”

Afraid the Borgia would divine his intense dislike for the Count, he bowed his head. “House and I suspected a setup. It’s common knowledge that a lot of vamps don’t want him turned, or at least not by me. The Count made our shortlist because he vowed vengeance after we thwarted his attempt to turn Cuddy. A custody hearing seemed the best way to draw Vlad out.”

“Gather your suspects and air your suspicions in a _relatively_ safe public forum.” The Godfather chuckled. “Your scheme worked admirably, my boy. Well done. You and House make a fine team.”

“Then you will permit me to turn him?”

“Another question? That’s your second.”

“We’re not at the tribunal. I thought…?”

“Anything to do with House and his turning is part of the hearing.” The Godfather motioned toward Titta. “That’s why he’s here.”

"Then yes, Godfather. That's my question," Wilson said firmly. The million dollar one.

“House's blood is undrinkable, and you are still weak. How will you go about embracing him?”

Wilson pointed to the goblet. “Transfuse him with the clean blood you have in reserve.”

“Is this another calculated risk, or are you sure?”

“Nothing about House is ever a sure thing.”

“I like the way you boys think,” the Godfather said and swiveled around. “Wasn’t I right about the two of them, Lord Electors?”

“You were,” the Ancients answered in unison.

Pahuack added, “We approve of your experiment, Caesar.”

“Thank you, my Lords.” The Godfather inclined his head in the semblance of a bow, and turned back to Wilson. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mastro. Blood may keep us going, but games and intrigue keep us young.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Godfather,” Wilson answered. House really would fit in.

“Titta, please advise the lab to begin House’s transfusion immediately. And dismiss everyone in the hearing chamber… except the Transylvanians.”

“Done and done, your Excellency,” Titta answered and vanished.

The Godfather took hold of Wilson’s arm. “I’ll take you to House. All should be ready by the time we arrive.”

* * *

In a hurry to see House, Wilson squeezed through the doorway at the same time two husky vampires dressed in lab coats pushed a stainless steel box the size of a crash cart out of the room. It was the caboose at the end of a long parade of bizarre machinery he was unable to identify.

He spotted Fuzzy standing guard at the foot of a canopy bed the size of an ocean liner. House was resting on a raft of pillows. Neglecting protocol, he rushed ahead of the Godfather, but no lightening bolts flashed over his head or chasms opened under his feet.

“Hey,” he said, lifting House’s hand as he sunk into a swarm of blankets lapping at the edge. Thumbing the blackened nail beds, the long fingers felt fragile, but warmer than the last time Wilson held them. He judged the temperature within a balmy, healthy range. He stroked the back of his hand over a scruffy cheek. Despite the dark circles under House's eyes and an alarmingly gaunt appearance, his skin was tinged a healthy pink.

“Hey yourself.” House’s voice betrayed the weariness of a warrior’s hard-fought battle.

The Godfather interrupted the reunion. “My scientists explained that the blood transfusion reversed most of the gray plague’s symptoms. Whatever remains will be gone after the embrace."

Unexpected hope sprang within Wilson and his thoughts burbled out. “House can stay human with transfusions.”

“No.” The Godfather shook his head. “The effects from fresh blood are short-term and less effective with each replenishment.”

“Can’t squirm out of our pact, Wilson.”

“You’re happy knowing you used up the last of your nine lives?”

“Yep. Because I racked up enough points to earn an undead bonus round.”

“You do know vampires aren’t invincible?”

“Which you made perfectly clear by contracting every undead disease known to them.”

“Showing is better than explaining,” Wilson answered, savoring their old banter. The spell was broken when he heard the Godfather clear his throat.

“For the next two days, you’ll find everything you need in this suite.” The Godfather pointed to an archway that opened onto a sitting room. A polished wooden casket gleamed against the wall like his grandmother’s cherished credenza.

The coffin brought him back to reality and the worry that had dogged him since the day House showed him the discolored bite on his arm. “There are a lot of unknowns attached to embracing. Since I have a soul, will House?”

“You wasted your third question.” The Godfather shook his head. “There is little that we know about the process. The scientist who developed the technique, Dr. Vernon Fosse, was one of our own, but went rogue shortly after ensouling you. He was caught and punished. Much of his memory along with the process was burned out of him in the Hell Pit.” The Godfather flicked imaginary dust from his immaculate lapel. “Isn’t that right, Fuzzy?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Dumbfounded by the revelation, Wilson sputtered, “Fuzzy? You?”

“Yeah, me Doc.”

“Can you remember anything about what you did?”

Fuzzy screwed up his face in thought. “I was in a white tiled room—a laboratory. There was a fridge full of blood. Tasty.” He wiped away a thread of saliva dripping from his mouth. "It might have been my lunch.“ He massaged his temples. "Sorry, Doc. I get a headache whenever I try thinking about it.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need no stinkin’ soul. I never had one.” House snickered from the confines of his nest of pillows. His face glowed with a silken sheen of sweat.

The glib reply disturbed Wilson. He touched House’s forehead. The fever had returned. He inwardly groaned. There wasn't much time or a choice. The thought of devoting the next twelve months to educating his fledgling so that metaphorically speaking, he didn’t trip over his own cape, was a daunting task. With no soul or pain, House unleashed might be uncontrollable.

“Fuzzy will stay with you,” the Godfather said.

Stifling a shiver, Wilson was sure the Godfather had read his thoughts. “And after the first year, will we hate each other?” For most of his kind, territory was stronger than familial bonds.

“That’s one question too many, my boy.”

“But…” He felt House softly squeeze his hand.

“Wilson is a belt and suspenders guy. He wants a contingency plan for his backup emergency plan.”

“Every time we meet, Mastro Wilson, you’re fretting. Much more of that and you’ll need a guitar.” The Godfather was clearly delighted by his own joke, but when no one laughed, he let out a long sigh. “Don’t worry about the future. I have plans for the two of you. Big plans.” He tapped the massive ring on his index finger. Although the lighting was dim, a star twinkled from the depths of the pigeon blood cabochon. “Uncovering the zombie plot by the Transylvanians earned you a shaving from this. If need be it can be a down payment on a joining ceremony.”

Wilson glanced at House, who had instantly donned his poker face. Gold dust was his domain, and he squirreled it away like he had done with Vicodin. “How much do we have?”

“Not enough,” House answered, bluntly.

“If you want to earn more, I have a proposition.” A slim leather-bound volume appeared in the Godfather’s hand. “A vampire hunter turned vampire with House’s temperament will make for interesting before-dawn reading. I want you to keep a journal. Write down everything you witness.”

The idea of recording his private life with House and disclosing the information was repugnant. “No one wants to read about the cereal he eats for breakfast.”

The Godfather shrugged his shoulders. “Cereal will be irrelevant after you embrace him. I’m sure you will find more interesting subjects to write about. But it is up to you whether you want to or not.” He tossed the journal upon the coverlets. “Meanwhile, I must get back to my guests and find out what mischief those crazy kids got into while I was away. Fuzzy, come with me. Let’s leave the lovebirds alone.”

Silent during the whole conversation, the Ancients emerged from their hideaway. For the first time they were grinning. Urckon spoke, “You will be administering justice to the miscreants? Perhaps, a dip in the Hell Pit, Caesar?”

As they filed out, Wilson overheard the Godfather answer, “The Hell Pit for starters. I have a full evening of entertainment planned for you.”

When they were alone, Wilson hastily peeled off his clothes and slid under the covers. He bundled House into his arms and pulled him close to his chest. A dart of pain sizzled from his wound, but quickly dissipated. He closed his eyes, and committed to memory the warmth of House’s body, the beat of his heart, the roar of his blood racing through his arteries and veins.

“It’ll be alright, Wilson,” House whispered. “I missed the sound of your insane toenail clipping when you confessed it was only a human pretense and stopped, but I got over it.”

“There is a difference, House.” He tenderly kissed the cap of thinning hair on House’s head as his fingertips skimmed leisurely over the delicate skin on the neck. They came to rest against the pulse, rising and falling like a becalmed boat bobbing on a wave.

One more minute, that was all he wanted.

“How did it go at the hearing?”

“Everything went as planned.”

House plucked at the bandage. “This was not part of the plan. What happened?”

“Nothing. All that matters is that we’re together. I missed you, House.”

“I know.”

Wilson smiled as he nuzzled House’s shoulder, allowing his lips to brush along the neck. The pulse quickened. House was anticipating his bite.

“Do it, Wilson.” House’s voice broke as he gulped for air. The gray plague was making inroads. “I swear, we will find a way for this to work.”

He felt something tickle his face and brushed at it, a silver droplet of water glinted from his finger. Wet trails ran down House’s cheeks too. He had never taken into account that the decision wasn’t an easy one for House either. This new knowledge bolstered his resolve to shepherd him through the next year with all the patience and kindness he could muster. With or without a soul, no matter if he were rebuffed a thousand times, he wouldn’t give up. Wilson murmured his affection with a promise, “Blood brothers, House,” and listened attentively for a response.

“Blood brothers forever, Wilson.”

Yes, the same love laced House’s words. For the first time in weeks Wilson relaxed and let his vampire nature take over.

  



End file.
